


Fleeting. Flickering. Foreboding.

by Harrishawksuperiour



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1991, Alternate Timelines, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Civil War (Marvel), Civil War Fix-It, Gen, Infinity Stone Dreams, Mission Report: December 16
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28999932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harrishawksuperiour/pseuds/Harrishawksuperiour
Summary: Since the Infinity Stones were safely returned to the rightful places in 2023, all was right in the universe.But what about the other timelines? Steve Rogers, the just and true Captain America, is often plagued by dizzying nightmares in any given timeline; completely oblivious of the others.Are they nightmares, though? As if in warning, in instruction, Steve faces choices that relate to them, realizing them as premonitions, not dreams; something he has lived before but when or how he cannot say.The human mind, Super Soldier or not, is a very powerful thing. And this time, he needs it to keep his only family together.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Kudos: 5





	Fleeting. Flickering. Foreboding.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Vibranium Bound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18738094) by [Harrishawksuperiour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harrishawksuperiour/pseuds/Harrishawksuperiour). 



> This popped into my head! Enjoy!  
> Probably will only be a few chapters long. Maybe.

**_June - 2016 _ **

The fleeting, flickering snatches woke Steve Rogers, hurtling him into a daze of sweat-drenched confusion.

Perhaps “woke” is too kind and gentle a term. “Ripped from turbulent slumber” is probably more accurate and appropriate.

Scrambling, thrashing in the suffocating darkness, kicking away the blanket, panting and whimpering in sheer distress, _what the Hell…?_ Trying to coax himself, with some, small, semi-sensible corner of his mind, he tried to convince himself that he was alright. That it was just a dream.

The **banging** in his chest and frantic fog in his brain almost refused to let him believe it.

The oxygen could not be replaced quickly enough; despite the desperate hauling of his lungs to expel the stifling poison only to drag it back in again and repeat the terrifying process. Pre-Serum Steve was no stranger to panic attacks and they had been few and far between since, thankfully, but perhaps he was due.

This “dream” was unlike any other; these razor fragments (all that he could recall, at least) cutting into his consciousness and subconsciousness indiscriminately. A man with an accent. A shadowed room, eerily backlit with pukey green. The smell… damp, mould, the icy air cutting into his nostrils when he breathed. He was not alone but… no, he couldn’t see. _The tension, though…_ Yes, tension abound.

Steve seized the bottle of water on his bedside table, flinging the lid into the oblivion and gulped the contents in a bid to replace what he’d lost through his pores.

It should go without saying that it is not unusual for the indomitable Captain Rogers to find himself in a situation like the one in the dream; facing down a foe in an undesirable setting. He had done it many times before, be it as an Avenger, a soldier, a Howling Commando, or on behalf of SHIELD, he had become somewhat comfortable in danger. The dream itself did not scare him, however, sucking frantically on the bottle of water, the urgency and the tension, _that tension,_ bombarded him. Not knowing what it meant, made things a thousand times worse.

_I dunno what this is… But it’s bad._

**“Steve?!”** Came a concerned call from the other side of the door, paired with an alerting knock. **“You a’right?! Heard you crashin’ around in there!”**

_“I’m okay…”_ Steve coughed, spattering himself with his mouthful but it made no odds; not when he and the bed alike were already positively saturated. At least it aided to cool the heat his flailing had stimulated. _“Thanks, Sam, I’m fine.”_

**“You sure?!”**

_“Yeah, pal. Thanks. Go back to bed.”_ Sam did not need to be told twice; not at half-past three in the Goddamn morning.

Clumsily, the blonde felt around for the bedside lamp, but his clammy fingers fell short of where he remembered it sitting; the torch on his phone (and his scarcely open eyes) told him it had been flung to the floor during the thrashing. Askew, but not broken.

As if suddenly hypnotized by the inconsequential furnishing on the rug beside the bed, his assessment of “unbroken” twigged something; something from the depths of his consciousness and dreaming memory.

_Glass… There was broken glass… Splinters… And sparks… Something broke. I broke something… But what?_

Perhaps he thought too much on it. After all, stress can take severe and unexpected tolls, manifest itself in all sorts of ways. And if anyone could claim themselves stressed, it was Steve fucking Rogers.

Lying low is one thing, he had conquered that. But lying low when one is being _actively pursued, targeted, and hunted? By a former best friend, no less? Hell-bent on arresting him? Again?_ Not to mention dedicated and trained soldiers on their trail with orders to shoot on sight. At least Tony could be reasoned with.

They had Bucky, it was a start. All they had to do now was wait for Wanda and Clint and hope it was not too late. Or… That the duo would not be intercepted leaving the States with another outlaw in tow. In that time, waiting for rendezvous, the sensible thing to do appeared to be rest; the near-condemned apartment on the outskirts of Leipzig would have to do. 

Calmed, grounded and returning to his pre-terrorized state, Captain Rogers lay back down and covered his face with his jittering hands; still cool from the bottle to ease him further if nothing else. He would try to put the dream behind him and rest but recovering from hysteria, he dared to wonder on it; lingering a moment or two.

Nothing new came, only those few paltry details; sharpened fragments like the broken glass themselves, a jigsaw he remained too exhausted to put together.

Speaking of exhaustion… It reclaimed him once more, not long later at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Do Review!


End file.
